A Conqueror's Reward
by Silenced Cry
Summary: [He has lost the battle and won the war] A traitor and his mistress [axel.larxene]


Disclaimer: _KH2 and its characters are __© Square-Enix_

Rating: _**T**__ to be safe_

A/N: _This is an AU (one-shot) that spurred from a thought. Please note that a medieval/renaissance time period acted as an influence, and the content hints at such, though the language has not been perfected...forgive me, if you can_ :) And, keep in mind that this is a larxene/axel fic though I gave them aliases to fit the setting.

Summary: _ He has lost the battle and won the war. _A traitor and his mistress.

x x_  
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**A Conqueror's Reward**

x x**  
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"It was a mistake for you to come here."

He doesn't doubt it, not for one heartbeat, but it is his pride that has brought him here, and not his heart. He simply smiles at her.

The grass is tall and uneven, thrashing against his calves, sharp as whips -no less than what she will do to him, he thinks. Gusts of wind are chasing about, bombarding any who dare interrupt their path, and it is fitting that he should meet her in the quiet of a storm, the wickedness settling in the thunder-charged blue of the clouds and in her eyes. He has no fear.

Her hair and clothes are rain-soaked, and if not for the shortsword clutched tightly in her hand, she would be petulant. The tip of it is raised to him though he is some distance away, but the threat is present, as well as the challenge. Lightning, like quick steel, shudders and snakes into the sky, tearing through the greyness in its own horizontal path with reckless abandon. It would seem as if he is already losing favour.

"A year ago, you were a lover", she purrs and saunters forward, tempting, misleading. The red of her hands becomes apparent to him now, and he follows the trail of it, from her fingertips, to her slim wrists, and up the fluid curve of her lower arm to her elbows. The blood is not hers, and he knows that she has just returned from a hunt. He wonders if she has painted herself in her kill. "You return a year later, as a fool, and an enemy."

"Yet still a lover, unless my charms have failed me", he smirks. She makes a clean slash in the air between them, scorning him.

The rain is rinsing off the murder from her blade, but does not steal away the scarlet stains on her body -a watery smear across one cheek, a smattering of imperfect circles on her calves and her thighs, a thin brushstroke of red tracing across her collar bone. He will have her yet.

She comes for him, diving into battle, and he is ready, for it is similar to how she shows affection. He must fight to keep her, must draw his sword amusedly and prove his worth. His mistress is swifter than he remembers, and finds that it is in the subtle jerk of her ankle grinding away from the earth, catapulting her to brace steel against steel with him. He marks that there is more pressure forcing its way onto him, and it is because of her wrists that are deceivingly thin and frail that have found some more strength in his absence. Closer, and his chest would be to hers, and it would not be the swords bracing, but their hips. The wind tosses the hem of her skirts, whispering against his legs, teasing. She is winning already.

Her blade finds a way to escape his, but he is demanding, and arcs his sword both left, then right. She deflects both and spins on her heels full-circle to meet him again. She smiles, the blood-lust curving with the soft slant of her lips and feels him falter slightly, distracted. She looks at him between her lashes and the singed honey-gold of her hair, glinting like an impure sun.

"You would tempt me like this again, Relena?" he smiles crookedly, aware of this old trick that led to moonlight chasing over their bodies. She laughs brokenly, panting, remembering.

She twines a strand of hair around her finger, decides against it, and flicks it away. "You should be so lucky" and he is caught by the sting of bitterness in her words, by the quick dart of her tongue that he would once coax and tease in a kiss. There is distance between them again, and he is sharply aware of it, does not like it, and makes sure to lessen it.

The rain trickles into his eyes and burns, and the engravings on the hilt of his sword become more pronounced with the wetness as his hands slip and scrape against it, trying for a trustworthy grip. He shifts the sword from hand to hand during the battle, breaking any patterns he may have let her follow in his technique, and she finds time between hits and misses to glare at him, "Always switching sides, aren't you Alex."

He is surprised and greedy for her voice. "Ah, so you have heard..." he thrusts and she parries, not yet tired.

"Who has not? The man who had gained the king's trust, then quickly lost it", she laughs, mocking, "Tactless."

She aims the words at him, but not her weapon and is driven back at his sudden ferocity. There is hatred burning in her eyes for him, "A man who betrayed his kingdom to help the enemy. Tired of losing the battles, he wanted to win the war."

With a cry, she is thrown back onto the ground, yet still has a winning smile, claiming a quiet victory. Her hair is in her eyes, and there is little blood left to decorate her skin, but his gaze tells her he is pleased nonetheless, with the sight before him.

_Scoundrel_, she thinks, both grinning and frowning.

Relena is absent of the quickness she needs, and is only successful in reaching for her sword, lying dutifully on the grass beside her before his boot comes down on her wrist. He will spare her no pain, though she does not mind.

"There is a fault in that tale", he speaks from above her, making her aware that he is dominant yet again though she would not have it so. "I did not fail in _all_ battles, only those that held no interest for me. There are others..." he touches the blade to her throat, "where I am the victor."

Her chin is raised, not to be mistaken for a coward shirking from the threat of getting her throat slashed, and looks proud rather than fearful. She is caught, she has lost, and yet there is no defeat in her eyes. Alex kneels to the ground before her, holding her still, and wanting to claim something other than triumph.

"Yield" he speaks, and forces his mouth onto hers.

And though she is disarmed, with pleasant wounds lacing her skin, and his touch, burning, welding into her, she fights with her lips and her teeth. Yield, she does not.


End file.
